DCUO Adventures- Ethos
by ApolloJZ
Summary: As Lex Luthor unleashes Brainiac's "Exobytes" over Earth's atmosphere, a dying man is given a second chance in life. Faced with a heavy legacy and tasked with the mission to save his brothers, he will have to carry the burden of making his remaining days count for something great; for an ideal. Feedback always appreciated, rate & review and most of all, enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

The light breeze sends small shocks down his entire body; they're his first clue. Someone stole his blanket again. His ears start picking up the loud engines of garbage collectors making the rounds and the large delivery trucks that supply the nearby stores. He rubs the crust formed around his eyes and struggles to sit up. Lifting up his eyelids becomes harder with each passing day; the burning sensation is becoming more intense. He expects he will lose his sight any day now.

He looks around. Shapes are just as blurry as yesterday. He looks up and squints; he can make the color of the sky. It's lightening up, from the starry blackness to a deep shape of blue. He starts rubbing his naked arms and torso, to warm up just a little bit, then takes a few moments to collect his thoughts, to properly allow his brain to wake up. He looks up again; the dark shade of blue has lightened up. He can't stall anymore, he has to move.

He supports himself on the nearby trashcan he and some friends had used to warm themselves the night before. As soon as his weight drops on his legs, he feels his knees crackle. His steps are heavier than yesterday; the cold doesn't help, but it's better than spending all day and night in the dampness of the sewers below. He walks slowly; his eyes aren't enough to guide him. He has walked the same path many times, he could reach the manhole with his eyes closed. He wagers he'll need to do as much soon. Even so, he still uses his hands to feel around the place and his boots to slightly kick forward, to ensure he doesn't stumble on anything or anyone new in the way.

He struggles with the cover of the manhole. He slowly drags it open, just enough for him to slip through; he's a big guy and despite the continuous deterioration of his body, his mass hasn't dropped one bit. He slowly climbs down the ladder to the sewers. He measures his steps, grabbing on to each railing as tightly as he can; he learned that lesson a week ago, when he ended up head first on the murky pool below. He still recalls the splitting headache he had for the rest of that day, though at least his head didn't actually split open. He isn't sure his skull will hold whole if he falls this time.

His smell is the only sense that has actually improved over time. As soon he steps off the rusty ladder, he picks up the musk on the walls around him and the stink of the water puddles below his boots.. The darkness surrounding him isn't easy on his already failing eyesight. What was blurry on the surface only resembles a never-ending fog in the depths of the city. He knows where he's going, though. He feels the walls with his hands and walks, slowly, his feet firmly on the ground.

It wasn't always like this. When he first reached Metropolis, he was strong; stronger than most. His skin was completely impenetrable. He could focus his eyes to see through everything and his ears, now filled with blood, could hear the buzz of a fly from three squares away. He used to spend his whole day just focusing on the things people said; ordinary people, going about their lives. Things he had never heard before. He would sit under the sun, drink in its warmth and find out the troubles and joys of regular people, their struggles at work and the peace of family and home.

The Sun… that perfect white star burning with yellow fire in the sky, emitting a light that's life-giving to most Kryptonians. He hasn't felt it against his skin in a very long time. His body can't take it anymore. It burns.

It's those memories, he thinks, that have kept his mind still clear and sharp; or as clear and sharp as living with stabbing pains all over his body will allow. He takes the same route every day: walk slowly twenty paces to the left of the ladder, then turn left. Fifteen more paces and then right. Walk straight until the puddles of dirty water under his feet turn to small pools at the height of his knees. Feel the wall until he finds a carving of three lines surrounding an oval rock. The rock is supposed to be bright green when viewed from a certain angle and its light is supposed to lead to the entrance to his shelter.

He can barely see the rock now that his eyesight is almost gone and the darkness doesn't help. He still remembers where the light-beam is supposed to point, but he always ends up backtracking at least a few times until he gets it right. When he does, he turns a lever. His hosts had told him the lever was installed when the sewer system was first established over a century ago. Its base is rusted and stuck and the lever is too small for anyone to open; anyone without super-strength, that is.

For the last year, he has been spending his days with the Underworlders. He had met them before, when he was still strong, but it was once his body started breaking down that they opened their house to him and they all hung out. They probably felt kinship, just like he did. The Underworlders were failed experiments that had been thrown out of Cadmus Project, the largest black research center in Metropolis before it shut down; not unlike him. They had a few run-ins with Superman, but their once thriving war tribe fell in shambles once their leader, Clawster, was killed by the Science Police. They talk about him often; he's a hero among them, but not one they miss. Clawster's dealings with the alien Mongul and his Warworld motivated him to rally the Underworld society and wage war against the surface world.

The Underworlders underneath Metropolis are now just a handful and none of them wish to see war. They've come to terms with their fate; a life away from prying eyes, which at the first sight of their deformed bodies and faces, would glare, disapprove and signal fearful hands to pick up and throw stones. Now, they spend their nights scouring the city for salvage, which they put to use in the day, crafting furniture and pots and mechanical devices. Not many merchants will do business with them and those that do keep their association off the books, a secret, but the monsters' works are some of the best in the market. At least, so they claim.

He never had any reason to doubt anything they've told him. There is something humbling about creatures as tall as short buildings and hands as big as a small cars laying down arms and devoting their lives to the most humble of human work. He was afraid; not of them, but of connections with others. He wouldn't admit it, but at the back of his mind, they are his friends.

He finally finds the lever. He runs his fingers across it to confirm and then wraps them around the metallic base. He pushes with whatever strength his body can still muster up. The lever turns easily. Too easily. Something's wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

He pulls the lever back down and then pushes it up once more. It's broken. He runs his fingers on the wall next to it; the trap-door behind it is open. He's trying to think the best-case-scenario, that the ancient lever broke and that everything's fine. He knows, though, that the Underworlders were too careful; they would have replaced it immediately, they would've collapsed the ceiling of the corridor leading to the door until they fixed it, if necessary. He throws his weight on the door and pushes it open.

The Underworlder lair is usually dark. Electrical light leaves too much of a trace, when you're stealing it, so the creatures always opted to using torches and makeshift devices to light up small fires. They were enough for them. This is different. There's light everywhere, light that is bright and burning and leaves off a very recognizable odor. The heat is so intense, it scratches on his skin, warning him to turn back before it flakes his skin off.

He doesn't. He takes a few steps without touching anything. He bumps on something and sits on his knee. No fire in front of him, only a body. He checks; gravel skin, leather vest and a copper chain from the creature's lip down to his waist. Gravel- a nickname as uninspired as it is fitting. Mike, the name of the monster when it was still a man. Kind. Capable. Friend.

His mind becomes clouded. He's afraid; afraid of what happened, afraid of the fire, afraid that he's now really alone. Maybe even afraid that he is next.

"It's me!", he shouts as loudly as he can. "Guys, Rick, Kyle, anyone! It's me!" His shout is closely followed by harrowing cough. His vocal cords feel like they'll rip and his already weak lungs are filling up with smoke; he can feel it. He needs to leave before he loses his senses in the middle of this inferno.

He suddenly hears a scream. A response to his call. It sounds desperate; it's probably not the first answer he got, but it's only now he can't hear it clearly. He curses the dried up blood in his ears and tries to follow the sound to its source.

"I'm here… to your right..." He recognizes the voice. It's Malak; strong, rough, rude, talented as all hell. Not a friend. He moves some salvage on top of Malak and sits on his knee.

"It's okay, I'm here", he says. "What happened?" he tries to move Malak, but he stops him with a painful grunt.

"Don't", Malak says. He moves the man's hand on his chest. His ragged shirt is soaked in blood in the middle of it, a knife lodged inside the wood-textured skin.

"I'll get help"

"From who? Hospitals can't admit me and nobody will dare get down here. Besides, what's the point? The Underworlders are over."

"Who did this?"

"You did." The man doesn't understand. His face is as shocked as it confused. His expression seems to anger the wounded Underworlder even more.

"We let you in here, day after day and not once, not a single time did you warn us that they could find us."

"Who's they? Malak, I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Agents, armed to the teeth. They were looking for you. They broke in..."

"How?"  
"They must've been shadowing you for months, following you here. They want you, they want you dead; gone, clean up Cadmus' mess."

"Why didn't you just tell them where I was? I'm dying anyway, what difference-"

"The others wouldn't let me. They stood on principle."

"And you listened to them?"

"They were my clan, my brothers. Besides, they were right; we too are Cadmus' garbage. They wouldn't let us live."

"You fought them?"

"Tried. They caught us off-guard. Most of our weapons we used for salvage to make our shit, to trade. Goddamn you and goddamn all of us for ever letting you in!"

He understands why Malak blames him. Worse, the creature is right; he knew that they would hunt him, eventually. Dabillex had told him when he helped him escape Cadmus, before the cleansing. Not once did he mention that to the Underworlders. It had been years since he left, he thought he was safe. Like a child, he let his guard down. Because that's what he is; a child.

"I'm sorry..."

"Lot of good that will do now", Malak responds as he runs his tongue, around his mouth licking the blood that flows from inside.

"Can I do anything?"

"Just… leave. Get the hell out of here."

"Are they still here?" As soon as he finishes he question, his head turns violently to the right. He can feel blood flowing from his cheek. Malak's claws marked him, though he barely felt them. He turns his head to the dying creature again, but doesn't react. How can he? He was too scared not to ask, but he knows it was a selfish question. He holds his tongue. Malak stares at him for a bit more, then his crusty eyelids fall and the light in his eyes starts to dim out.

"Please, leave. Let me die among my brothers."

"I tried to be your brother, Malak." He didn't think this through either. He clenches his teeth, expecting another punch. It doesn't come, but not for lack of trying.

"You think we are the same, because Cadmus threw us all out? We are not. We were denied life among the living. Monsters hunted down by everyone. We had no other choice, so we made the best we could. But you? You have two arms, two legs and a soft skin. You are one of them. You chose to be here, to hide."

"You know that's not true. I can't-"

"Not anymore. But what were you doing when you could?" A child. That's what he is. An annoying, needy child. "Get the hell out of here."

He stands up. He squints his eyes and makes out Malak's face; it's turned to the side. He's still breathing, but not for long. He has closed his eyes, to wait for the end in as much peace as he can find in darkness. The man leaves.


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as he steps out of the hideout, he coughs loudly, trying to get the smoke out of his lungs. Then, he thinks of the next step. He's conflicted. Too many emotions, the kind that he hasn't experienced before, cloud his judgment. He feels anger, rage, the kind that he didn't think possible. He has felt anger before, but one that was born out of frustration about his situation. This kind of anger was new; fueled by pain, hurt and insurmountable embarrassment and guilt. He wants to find these people, to make them pay. He even, for a brief moment, tries to pick up their smell with his super-nose, to follow them and demand answers.

But then, his head feels like it has been stabbed and his skin feels like a thousand cats scratch on it all at the same time, as it cools off from the blazing pit he just left. Then all of his anger becomes irrelevant, because the one emotion that remains is fear. He's dying already and his friends are gone; what the hell's the point of going after them, of dying faster than he already is? He'll just escape, seclude himself from people again and die quietly outside the city. Yes, that's what he'll do. He has thought it through, nobody else will die, it's the best plan he can think of, it'll all be okay.

He starts pacing fast toward the exit, backtracking his steps toward the manhole. He's already thinking the excruciating pain once direct sunlight hits him, the smell of his burnt flesh hitting him hard enough to make him want to vomit. He'll have to power through it and then use back-alleys and shade, maybe beg one of the homeless to give up a blanket for him to use for cover. When he was being educated at Cadmus, he remembers a small forest reservation not too far outside the city, a little ways off the road leading to Coast City. There are trees and a small lake. It should be perfect for his final days.

These thoughts flood his mind, plans drawn up on the spot, hopeful intentions to escape the reality of his situation right now. It's in the midst of such thoughts that this reality hits him in the form of a proximity mine a few meters away from the ladder. He didn't see it -he couldn't. The force of the blast throws him back like a ragdoll, crashing against the wall. The buzzing in his ears is the first thing he can hear loud and clear in a very long time. He shakes his head and opens his eyes; he spots a small squad of people dressed in black uniforms, probably paramilitary, probably the agents Malak spoke of. He panicks. He struggles to get up and then runs to the opposite direction.

The troops behind him don't make any effort to mask their presence. Jackboots mercilessly beating the old, cracked bricks below their feet, shouts and yells directing them to him, tired and determined grunts hunting him down the dark corridors of the sewers. It's familiar to him; it's not the first time he has been hunted like that. This was how he became the man he is today, when he was smuggled out of Cadmus, when they tried to put him down before he escaped with their secrets into the open, free world. The noise is familiar, as is the sweat that breaks beneath his eyebrow, as is the overwhelming feeling of dread that threatens to paralyze his limbs.

Metropolis' sewer network doesn't connect the entire city. A lot of it has been collapsed and rebuilt, especially during super-villain skirmishes. The city decided that it'd be safer and more cost-effective to give some of the larger districts their own system. If he could surface in Glennmorgan Square, they'd lose him; it's rush-hour, too many people for a secret unit to search. But the Suicide Slums don't connect with the Square. He turns left in an intersection toward Chinatown instead. He climbs up a small ladder to the upper levels of the tunnels and moves straight toward Shen Li Po Gardens. There should be access to the surface from here.

He has walked this route before, he knows where to go. As he runs, he stumbles on a formation of rocks. He doesn't remember them being there. He falls to his knees, clumsily, and searches the ground with his hands. It's not a formation; the tunnel has collapsed. His escape route is cut-off. He feels his heart pounding even faster, each breath shorter and harder to catch. If his eyes didn't burn, he would probably feel the tears forming at their corners. He stands back up, limbs trembling with adrenaline and despair. He backtracks to the intersection, praying the troops haven't caught up to him yet. Once there, he takes the other path. He's still heading for Chinatown, but he has no idea how far away from the Gardens or the Square it will lead him.

He's lying on the floor. He misses the stabbing pains from his fall from the manhole ladder earlier. Every muscle that he can still feel tortures him, as if they blame him for the injury. He's not even sure what happened. He recalls a massive explosion. This paramilitary unit had come prepared; the Underworlders were their last destination. They had probably spent some time down here, mining the sections that city workers regularly avoided or were closed off from. He never saw them. He just felt the wave crippling him mid-run and throwing him, violently, against the wall. The wall, in turn, graced him with a hug.

He struggles to remove the debris from his body and stand back up. This time, it's too late. The armed men are standing directly opposite to him, weapons trained at him. He crawls, on all fours away from them, but there is no escape. What's left of the tunnel leads to a steel window, impossible for him to break through. Even if he had the strength -and he doesn't- the rich sunlight coming through would burst him into flames.

"Put him down", one of the men, probably the Squad Commander, he reckons, orders.

"But sir...", a man standing next to him responds in a voice that's soothingly hesitant and fearful, "… he's Superman." The Commander scoffs.

"No, not Superman. Just a copy." The Commander hands a cartridge to the hesitant soldier. He takes it, drops the clip from his weapon and replaces it with the special cartridge. He can't make out what it is -his blurry eyes now have tons of dust inside to let him focus anywhere- but he can make out a bright, green glow coming from it. He guesses that if he didn't already feel like death, the strange light alone would make him puke his guts out. The thought makes him smirk.

As his enemies prepare to deal the final blow, he keeps dragging himself backwards toward the window on his hands and ass. It's a reflex, he's not really expecting rescue or salvation at this point. He stops the moment he feels his naked back and his head start feeling like fire. Maybe the smell of crisping human flesh will make them vomit inside their helmets. It'd be a nice parting gift. He smirks again.

The soldier aims at him, but hesitates. The bleeding man can't see his eyes inside that helmet, but he wagers the young troop is more scared than he is reticent to take a defenseless life. The notion fascinates him, empathy through terror, forceful humanity. He tries to picture a world of limitless potential, without the restrictions of fear. Then he looks down the barrel of a gun and is impressed by the dumb, irrelevant thoughts that cross one's mind before death. He stares.

A loud bang, coming from the outside, distracts them all for a moment. The sound wasn't as crisp and invading as that of an explosion; it was lower, more beating, like that of a sonic boom. They even feel it on the tunnels around them, on their very muscles. The young troop's hand starts trembling. If he was already scared, this definitely didn't put his mind at easy. He looks back at his Commander. The Commander doesn't flinch, he just stares. His eyes are hidden as well, but his entire body is radiating anger. The soldier pulls the trigger.

The first shell drops on the floor and rolls to the side. The Commander is surprised. The young troop is surprised. The man on the floor is astonished. Before anyone can react, the troop pulls the trigger again. And again. He quickly, in a fit of panic, empties the entire clip. Most of the rounds hit the man. Some just scrape him and hit the wall behind.

The man on the ground checks his body. No holes. Nothing. The bullets bounced off of him. Then he realizes another thing: his arm doesn't hurt anymore. He can see it clearly. His eyes still burn, but they work as best as ever. His back isn't on fire anymore. His mind is clear. He feels rejuvenated. He feels as good as he did the moment he walked out of his Cultivation Tank back in the Project.

And he can hear everything. Every short breath in the tunnel, the music of hundreds of drumming heartbeats, of quiet whimpers. He stands up, on legs that have never felt as strong as they do now. As he raises his eyes at them, the wound from Malak's claws heals right in front of the confused men that stand opposite to him. He doesn't know why or how this happened. He knows what it means.

The troop that shot him is the first to meet with his clenched fist. His body is propelled back to the other end of the tunnel with a terrible crash.

"Fire!" The order is just a formality at this point. The moment the troops saw their teammate fly through the air, they had already started shooting. The scuffle lasts only seconds. When it's over, there's no more gunfire, no more whimpers, no more heartbeats.

Except one.

The Commander is lying on the floor, clutching his broken knee in his palms. His helmet is cracked open, it's lower part cutting inside his left cheek. His eyes are flooded in terror as he sees the man standing above him, with blood dripping from between his fingers and knuckles.

"But… you're Superman… you don't kill", he says through teeth chattering from the pain.

"I'm not Superman", the man responds. "I'm just a copy." His bright red eyes turn even brighter and in an instant, they let out all the pain and frustration and hate that were bottled up in him for so long. For the first time in years, the burning sensation felt satisfying, justified, even comforting. When it's over, all that remains from the Commander is charcoal dust.

He cleans his hands on the water puddles that form between the uneven bricks. In his way back to the manhole, he crushes every mine he finds in his way inside his hands. As he surfaces, he ignores the strange looks he gets. He doesn't care that he's half-naked or that he's covered in dust and dirt. The day is starting. The people walk the streets, pick up their coffee, go to work. Shops and stores open their doors. Metropolis looks bright as ever. He stands in the middle of it all. He tilts his head up and closes his eyes. He feels the warmth in his face. That's all he needs right now. There is time for the rest. For now he'll just stand here.

For now, he'll just enjoy the sun.


End file.
